Nothinglikea24-hour vomittingbugtospiceup aromanticbreakaway
WE are cursed. There’s no two ways about it, we are jinxed. Every time we try and organise a romantic trip away, (which to be honest with two kids, a dog, jobs and an eclectic assortment of other responsibilities, it doesn’t happen very often) something occurs to put the kybosh on it.
This time it was a bug. Oh boy was it a bug! I had fallen victim to it the week before in work and had crawled home into bed before spending 24 hours in the loo for one reason or another. Then the father in law got it and he delighted in sharing every gory detail with us just in case we had missed some tiny aspect of the illness. And of course his was way worse than mine. In all his 78 years he had never felt so bad.
We thought Himself had escaped. The night before we went away he was grumpy but he’s always grumpy before we go away, probably because he’s anticipating how much over my luggage allowance I’m going to be.
Finally I confronted him after he snapped at me for hogging the duvet, something I do every night so you’d think he’d be used to it! ‘Why are you so contrary?’ I asked, yanking a bit more duvet for divilment.
‘I don’t feel well,’ he said.
I was instantly alarmed.
I had been so looking forward to this trip, if we had to cancel I was going to crack up. I put my
Florence Nightingale hat on and rubbed his back. I checked his temperature and got him paracetamol.
I was a really good wife.
Unfortunately it didn’t help. He was up and down to the loo all night.
And like most men (sorry but it’s true) he didn’t suffer in silence. There was a constant stream of moans and groans and dramatic sighs even after
I made him tea and toast and brought it to him in bed.
‘Ok. That’s it. Let’s just cancel. You can’t go feeling like that!’ My patience has disappeared along with my dream of cocktails on the harbour in a little town in the South of France.
‘No no I’ll be ok, ooooh, ahhhhhhh eeuuugh.’
We got in the car and drove to Dublin only stopping four times. In Burger King, a time-honoured tradition when we go away, he gave me his chips. In 17 years of marriage this has never happened. On the plane he never spoke except to say he was going to the loo.
We drove to our destination with the windows down out of necessity. Half way there I started to feel ill. Meanwhile, Lazarus was rising from the dead! ‘Ah I’m starting to feel better now,’ he says as we pull up outside the hotel.
I wasn’t. I legged it to the toilet where I remained for quite some time. ‘Jaysus you look like s****,’ he remarked as I emerged, clutching my tummy. ‘You’re after giving me that bloody bug back,’ I moaned.
He started to laugh. I wanted to kill him but there were people watching. ‘Ah well. Better out than in as your mother used to say!’
Who said romance is dead!
INBURGERKING, A TIME-HONOURED TRADITIONWHEN WEGOAWAY, HE GAVEMEHISCHIPS. IN17YEARSOF MARRIAGETHISHAS NEVERHAPPENED